Page 19 of Love to Defy You
The door to the bedroom creaks open, rousing me from sleep. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. With a groan, I roll over to face the door, but the corner of my hardcover finance textbook digs into my ribs.
“Ah,khuy!“ I hiss. “Malishka?Is that you?”
Silence.
Rubbing my side, I glance at the door, which is open just a crack, and a small sliver of dim light from the hallway shines through. I must not have shut it all the way when I came to bed.
No matter. I roll back into my prior position, and once I adjust the pillow the way I like it, my body relaxes into the mattress. It welcomes sleep again, and my eyelids grow heavy.
Just as I start to slip out of consciousness, someone roughly grabs me and pulls me upright. My eyes shoot open, but a heavy cloth bag is shoved over my head, rendering me blind. I kick at my attacker, but more hands grasp my legs to hold me down.
I have no idea how many people I’m up against as they roll me onto my stomach and bind my wrists behind my back. All I can do is struggle against them, but I may as well be a worm wriggling in the dirt.
“Who are you?” My words are muffled against the bag. “If it’s money you want—“
They flip me over again and lift me into the air before carrying me across the room. My efforts to escape don’t slow them down.
Flashbacks to the day of the school shooting in Andarusia come flooding back in a tidal wave, and the onslaught of memories is so strong I can’t breathe. The bag over my head, the car ride to the remote location in the forest, the way my wounded arm ached against my bindings as I bled.
It’s an incident I never thought I’d repeat.
Did the revolutionaries come to finish what they started? To end the Kurochkin line once and for all?
The elevator pings, and they carry me inside before coming to a stop. I’m suspended in the air as my captors keep a firm hold on me. Surely someone in the lobby will see me being dragged into the street? Perhaps a passerby on the sidewalk outside can call for help?
When the elevator pings again, we begin to move, and heavy footsteps echo off the marble tile.
“Release me!” I call out at the top of my lungs. “I swear to God, you bastards will pay for—“
“Shut up,” a male voice hisses.
It’s the last thing I hear before a hard blow lands on the side of my head, and everything fades into a dark abyss.
***
Ammonia hits my nose with an intense burn, making me awaken with a sharp gasp. I break into a coughing fit as the back of my throat stings and constricts, and my heart pounds an erratic rhythm against my chest. The eerie chanting of masculine voices echoes around me, like the Gregorian chants of the Benedictine monks of old.
Before I can find my bearings, someone hauls me upright until I’m on my knees. The floor beneath me is damp and uneven, and when my vision comes into focus, I realize it’s cobblestone. Orange firelight flickers in a puddle of stagnant water.
Someone gasps. On my right side, a lanky guy in nothing but his boxers is curled up on the floor. A hooded figure crouches over him, holding smelling salts to the victim’s nose, but his face is concealed behind a black mask.
We’re not the only ones in here. A row of guys—who all appear college-aged—are on their knees in various states of undress with their wrists bound behind them. Most of them are wearing sweatpants and T-shirts, although a couple of them arein nothing but their boxers. One guy with disheveled red hair is naked and shivering, unable to hide his shriveled manhood without the use of his arms.
At least I had the foresight not to fall asleep naked tonight. I’m in a pair of sweatpants, but without a shirt on, my nipples harden in the chilly temperature.
A quick headcount down the row gives me at least two dozen captives, including myself. However, we’re surrounded by a circle of shrouded figures, all wearing identical black cloaks and masks. In fact, the costume is eerily similar to the one I wore the night I terrorized Willow in the mirror maze and made her mine.
What the fuck is this? Am I to be slaughtered on an altar to some pagan god as a ritualistic sacrifice by delusional religious zealots?
The damp cobblestone runs up the walls and arches over us, but there are no windows, and the only light comes from the lit torches affixed to the walls with iron. If I had to guess, we’re in an underground chamber built centuries ago beneath the city.
That is, if we’re still in Zurich. I have no idea how long I was out.
When the last guy in our row is brought back to consciousness, the hooded figure with the smelling salts stands up and joins the circle. I can’t get a full count of how many of them there are, but we’re outnumbered. Another figure steps forward from the circle, and when he holds his hands in the air, the chanting stops, the final note reverberating against the arched ceiling until the chamber falls into silence.
The only sounds remaining are the crackle of the flaming torches and a slow, steady drip of water from the ceiling.
The figure lowers his hands. “Welcome, candidates. You are in the presence of the gods.”
